Celebration
by likeatumbleweed
Summary: Loki arranges for a private celebration of Sigyn's birthday. (This takes place during the early part of my longer story Illusion - but reading that is not required to enjoy this story.) Loki/Sigyn. AU. Pre-Thor movie.


_**A/N: While taking a hiatus from my longer story Illusion, I hit a follower milestone on Tumblr and was prompted to write a story about Loki and Sigyn and the celebration of her birthday. This was the result. (BTW, you can find me and my Loki-related blog on Tumblr at asgardianruminations.)** _

* * *

Loki doesn't know it's Sigyn's birthday.

It's no one's fault, really. Loki's never asked when her birthday is, and though their relationship has long since passed from merely _friends_ to the more rarefied air of _lovers_, Sigyn has been wholly unable to find a graceful opportunity to work it into a conversation. And so, the day has arrived, and he remains unaware.

Even her brother Edmund – never one for keeping track of anything outside of which palace maid he has yet to defile – thought to leave her a slice of honey cake on their kitchen table before he left for his duties, a hastily scrawled note of congratulations slipped under the edge of the plate and held in place with a fork. It is a thoughtful gesture, to be sure…and yet it is not quite enough.

She arrives outside the queen's chambers soon after, expecting to find Loki waiting for her as he always does, but today he is conspicuously absent. She has grown accustomed to their daily ritual – a few stolen kisses and promises of more (and…_more_) when her duties are finished – promises that leave her nerves humming and her skin itching; but he is not there, and she is left to her disappointment on the one day she least wants to be let down.

Maybe he takes it for granted, she thinks, the passing of yet another year. What is a birthday to one such as him – a prince nearly 300 years her senior whose very existence is cause for daily celebration by an entire realm?

The hours pass, the forward momentum of time nearly imperceptible as Sigyn goes about her tasks. Loki is a constant in her thoughts – so much so that at one point as she is taking notes for the queen about an upcoming visit from an Alfheim dignitary, she mistakenly writes Loki's name in place of the word "book", scratching it out in a rush before the queen can see her error.

She hates that she is behaving like a lovesick maiden, even as sadness threatens to creep into her mind and ruin her day. She steels herself, determined to be forthright with him when she sees him, to just _tell_ him it's her birthday and move on. She cannot be angry at him for missing a date for which he is utterly unaware.

A palace messenger arrives just as she is finishing up the last of her daily work, carrying an envelope made of heavy paper and bearing gilt edges. Sigyn takes it from him and delivers it to the queen.

Frigga barely glances at it before handing it back. "Sigyn, dearest. This is addressed to you."

"Me?" she asks, nonplussed. She looks at it, and indeed, it is her name written across the front, the handwriting as graceful and measured as the man who wrote it. She runs her finger across the letters in a daze.

"Are you going to open it?" asks the queen, gently shaking Sigyn from her reverie.

"Oh! Oh yes, of course." Sigyn breaks the seal and pulls out a card from inside.

_My darling Sigyn,_

_Forgive me for not meeting you this morning in our usual manner. I was drawn away on important business. Join me for dinner this evening in my chambers, just before sunset, and I will make amends._

_-Loki _

Her heart lightens considerably.

She leaves the queen's chambers moments later, and before she is five steps free of the door, the same palace messenger from before appears from a shadow, another envelope in his hands. He thrusts it toward her.

"His Highness asked that I make sure you received this _after_ you'd left his mother's chambers," he says.

Sigyn takes it from him, and before she can thank him, he is hurrying away down the corridor. The new envelope is much smaller and less formal than the last, the seal on it barely more than a smudge of wax. The message written on the folded piece of parchment inside is blunt, the handwriting less controlled, more _rushed_ – and she is at once grateful he ensured she not receive it in Frigga's presence.

_Forgo all undergarments tonight. I want nothing between my hands and your skin but the hem of your gown and the night air. _

Her heart – so recently lightened – now begins to pound behind her ribcage; her cheeks are hot and her hands are shaking as she stuffs the paper back into the envelope and into her pocket, hurrying home to make preparations.

* * *

Later, Sigyn walks through the palace halls as briskly as she dares, the way to Loki's chambers now as familiar to her as her reflection in the mirror. She feels as exposed as a newborn, the brush of her gown on the bare skin beneath as foreign to her as a strange tongue from another realm – a thought she regrets at once, as it calls to mind _Loki's_ clever tongue and how it feels on her body. She flushes pink, raising cool fingers to her cheeks in an attempt to calm her ardent imagination.

Few she passes acknowledge her, and those that do, do so with a look she has come to notice more frequently – a look she is learning to ignore. _There she goes, _it says. _Prince Loki's new pet._ She keeps her head high, her steps slow and careful. She does not want to give herself away, to seem too eager, even as heat blooms in her stomach at the thought of what Loki might have planned for her this night.

She reaches his chamber doors, and he throws them open before she has a chance to knock, almost as though he heard her approach, even though her footsteps were nearly silent in the corridor. She is reminded yet again of his penchant for mischief, and how it is best served by being aware of his surroundings at all times. It is a sobering thought, to realize she will never be able to surprise him.

He sweeps her up and into his arms with a smile, through the doorway and into the warmth of his rooms. The doors shut and lock behind her of their own accord, and the sound of the latch relaxes her; it is a signal of their separation from the rest of the world and its prying eyes when they are alone.

His kisses are heated, even as he sets her down, pulling away after a moment with less reluctance than she would like.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, grasping her hand and leading her to his private balcony. He has arranged a small table under the starlight, illuminated by a multitude of candles and laden with dishes she recognizes as some of her favorites – roasted fowl, candied fruits, freshly baked bread – enough to feed a small army. It is so like him…overindulgent to a fault.

He places her into a waiting chair, settling in across from her and offering her a goblet of wine. "And how was your day?" he asks. "I trust my mother did not run you ragged?"

"No," she says. "It was…uneventful." She picks up a fig from a platter and nibbles the edge of it. All of her determination and courage has fled her, along with her appetite.

Loki cocks his head to one side, narrowing his eyes. "Do you not wish to know how I spent _my_ day?" he asks, and there is no malice in his voice, only confusion.

"I am not your keeper, Loki," she says. "Your business is your own, and you will share it with me if you wish." She sounds more petulant than she intended, and so she raises her glass to her mouth, taking a long sip of wine to swallow the rest of her words.

"You are upset with me," he says, and still there is no anger in his tone.

"I'm not upset with you, love," she replies, even if she can't quite look him in the eye.

"I see. Well, if you won't ask, then I will just have to tell you anyway. I spent the day with your mother."

Sigyn looks at him sharply, the raw shock on her face eliciting a chuckle from his throat.

"Do you know that both of you make precisely the same face when you're surprised?"

Sigyn blinks rapidly. "What?" she sputters. "You spent the day with my mother? Why?"

"To thank her of course," he says, as though it should be obvious, "for bringing you into this world. Is this not the anniversary of your birth?"

Her shoulders relax, and the release of the pressure she's been holding close for hours is almost enough to make her weep. "It is."

He smiles at her with a near infuriating amount of smugness. "And you thought I didn't know."

"I never told you."

"And whose fault is that?" he asks, taking a long swallow from his own goblet. "Sigyn, I'm not sure if I should be offended by your lack of confidence in me and my ability to gain knowledge I seek – even when the person I wish to learn about is...less than forthcoming."

"I thought if it was important, you would ask."

"You think you're not important to me? You think I don't wish to know everything about you?" He puts his hand over his heart, his long fingers covering the expanse of his chest. "You wound me."

The fig she has been slowly consuming is heavy in her hand, and she throws the rest of it in her mouth before she can say something completely stupid. He fills the silence.

"I wanted to do something special for you, and I thought your mother could help. Perhaps I went about it the wrong way, but you must understand – deceit, chicanery, trickery…these are all things that come easily to me. But _honesty_? It's a strange feeling, this compulsion to be authentic with you. You'll have to forgive my lack of practice."

He reaches beneath his chair and pulls out a small wrapped package. He holds it out to her. "Your mother assured me you would love it."

Sigyn takes it from him with a shaky hand, peeling the paper away to reveal a leather-bound book of poetry from across the nine realms. She is stunned; the tome in her hands is without doubt worth more than her entire year's salary. "Oh, Loki," she says. "I cannot accept this."

"Don't be absurd," he says. "I insist you keep it. " He reaches across to her, opening it to a page marked with a ribbon, and points out a single stanza in a poem from Midgard.

_When love with one another so  
Interanimates two souls,  
That abler soul, which thence doth flow,  
Defects of loneliness controls._

"Words have never been an obstacle for me," he says, "though poets can occasionally say the things I find most difficult, far greater than even I can. However," he says as he rises from his chair and holds his hand out to her, "there _are_ things I can do that cannot be replaced by a poem in a book."

She can hardly feel the book anymore as she sets it on the table and takes his hand.

He leads her to a far corner of the balcony, to a nest of pillows and blankets and furs lit by even more candles. He catches her as she takes in their surroundings, and how visible they are outside.

"It's too beautiful a night to be inside. Don't worry…only the stars will be able to see us."

He lays her down onto the makeshift bed, careful to ensure her head has a pillow beneath it. Slipping her shoes off one at a time as he kneels before her, he rubs her soles gently before setting her feet down on either side of his legs. He could stop right there and not do another thing, and rest easy in the fact that this birthday has surpassed any she has had in an age.

"Did you do as I asked?" he says, rucking her skirt up before she can even draw a breath to answer. He pushes her knees apart firmly, the palms of his hands warm as they inch up the inside of her thighs, stopping with each shallow breath to squeeze and knead her skin. As he reaches his goal, the smile that spreads over his handsome face is feral. "Oh, _yes_. Yes you did."

She is fixed in place by his stare – even as his hands work in tandem to open her up, fingers expertly exploring damp flesh before pulling free. They glisten in the candlelight as he raises them to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers, and he slips them between his lips with a sigh.

He leans forward to kiss her as he works to completely divest her of her clothing, and she can taste the lushness of her body on his tongue as it slides across hers. Once the fastenings on her dress are loose enough, he breaks from her to pull it over her head and throw it to the side. She followed his directions to the letter, with not even a chemise to cover her beneath her gown, and he pauses for a beat as his gaze travels the length of her form, laid completely bare for him.

A simple turn of his wrist and his own clothing vanishes; he is more than ready for her, full and heavy between his thighs, and she cannot wait another moment to have him inside her. She pulls him close, wrapping her legs around his waist and interlocking her ankles at his back…and then he rocks his hips forward, sliding into her without pause and filling her up, and she bites her bottom lip bloody to keep from screaming because _Norns he feels so good._

And it's more than just him pushing _into_ her, it's him pushing _out_ everything that has haunted her for so long; the self-doubt, the isolation, the crushing ache for _connection_ that she has long feared impossible to dispel. That she would find that connection with Loki is a gift she thought beyond her abilities to achieve.

She no longer cares that they are outside. Better to suffer the silent judgment of the stars than the reprimands of those around her, vocal or otherwise. She closes her thoughts to it all – her focus solely on her lover as he moves within her, claiming her as his, his weight a solid comfort.

"I love you, Loki," she whispers, and his reply is reduced to a groan as she stretches up to cover his mouth with hers.

He interlaces his fingers through hers, pinning her hands down above her head as his tempo increases, the give and take of their dance reaching its inevitable crescendo. Her back arches into him, and she cries out, the night sky suddenly and inexplicably over-bright as her body trembles beneath his.

Instantly, Loki's eyes go wide before squeezing shut, his mouth slack and his breath erratic, and she can feel his own completion as he swells and spills into her. She does not take it lightly, being sole witness to such vulnerability and openness in one who prides himself on being a master of control. Valhalla could take her right now, and if this is the last image in her eyes, she would die a happy woman.

He is weak and spent, but is mindful not to crush her in his collapse, propping himself up on his elbows as he buries his face into her neck and licks the sweat from her skin. "Are you now certain of my feelings for you, beloved?" he asks into her hair, and she nods silently, clutching him to her until he must finally pull away.

A quick wave of his hand cleans away the evidence of their lovemaking; it's a nice trick, one he doesn't use often, but one that allows her to remain where she is. She considers it a final birthday gift as she burrows beneath the furs and pillows.

"Let's sleep out here tonight," he says, stepping away to retrieve more wine, some food, and her new book of poetry.

They lie beneath the stars, drinking and eating, alternating more kisses and embraces with Loki reading selections of poems to her, the soothing cadence of his voice lulling her into drowsiness.

He sets the book aside and fits his body to hers, tracing the line of her neck between her ear and her shoulder with his lips. "Happy birthday, my love," she hears him whisper just as she drifts into sleep, "and many happy returns."

* * *

**_A/N #2: The stanza Loki points out in the book of poetry is from "The Ecstasy" by John Donne (1572-1631). If you are so inclined, you should search out his works, as they are all magnificent._**


End file.
